Metamorphosis
by Giada Luna
Summary: "No matter where your wings take you," she entwines her fingers in his, "I will be waiting." Oneshot on the transformation of Gabriel Agreste into Hawkmoth/Papillon, and the love he lost along the way.


_I am new to the Miraculous fandom, but I already love the series. Just a oneshot from a late night. You can also find it on tumblr or AO3.  
_

* * *

 ** _Metamorphosis_**

 **met·a·mor·pho·sis**

medəˈmôrfəsəs/  
 _noun  
_ ZOOLOGY  
1\. (in an insect or amphibian) the process of transformation from an immature form to an adult form in two or more distinct stages.  
o a change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one, by natural or supernatural means.

* * *

i.

When he meets her, she is young and impossibly beautiful. He's never seen eyes greener, or a smile warmer, and did not know that hair could be spun from sunlight. But it is her kindness and brilliance of soul that effortlessly catch his attention and ensnare his heart.

She delights in the delicate flowers and sun-dappled paths of early spring, and he is awash in inspiration. She tempers his rigidity and he blooms slowly in the warmth of her smiles; the last of the latent bulbs pushing through the frost to join the green of spring.

He confides his dreams and ambitions to her, and she believes with everything she is in everything he will become. And for the first time, the acknowledgement of not only his talent but him as a person strikes home.

And his heart grows a little warmer (because he knows she cannot speak but in truths, so this must be so) as for the first time he truly believes he will navigate the waters of his ambition.

"It is a cold world," he speaks of the journey to come. "The competition is cutthroat and the industry is ruthless." He sits on a blanket they share, with his back against a tree, watching the clouds drift by. She sits next to him, arranging a small bouquet.

She takes joy in simple pleasures and old things – the simplicity of a bunch of wildflowers tied together with grass, dusty old books she reads so they won't feel forgotten, handwritten letters, and brightly colored paper. He wonders if that part of her is what loves him, for he is an old soul, and does not laugh easily, and the gray at his temples arrived before his eighteenth birthday.

"It is always cold when you are alone," she says, her words gossamer gentle, "but you are not alone."

He looks up at her, daring to hope, and finds no guile to dissuade him.

The white butterfly flutters down to sample the nectar of her bouquet, and she speaks softly so as not to startle it away.

"You see?" she says, whisper-hushed eyes agleam. "This little one will sample fields far and wide, but will always return to where the flowers that know it best wait for it. And when it is gone, they shall both dance in the wind, and send their messages on its back for a safe journey and a swift return."

She smiles as their guest flutters away on the next breeze, and leans her head on his shoulder.

"No matter where your wings take you," she entwines her fingers in his, "I will be waiting."

* * *

ii.

She wears his designs long before anyone knows his name. Even when the world clamors for his work, and his genius is celebrated and touted throughout the industry and the world, she wears his designs soley because they are his. That is, and always has been enough for her.

He had not exaggerated the shadows of the fashion world, but she remains simple and steadfast and in bloom. She takes to origami, and leaves him one, small, white butterfly every day.

She does not know he keeps every single one. He does not know she kisses the paper to fold in her love. They both know the butterflies mean 'I love you.'

When it is time to make his mark on the world, he can think of no better talisman. The butterfly becomes the hallmark of his designs, and his promise to always return to her.

The rest of the world wants something from him.

She is the only person who asks for nothing.

And so she is his everything.

And she holds his heart.

* * *

iii.

He had been a lonely, quiet boy, in a cold house with distant parents.

When she brought spring into his life, he thought he had met the most loving person in the world, and that he had reached his own capacity for the emotion.

He thinks that even as she tells him, eyes shining with unshed tears, that they will now be a family of three. Liquid joy cascades down her cheeks, and he marvels at the sight.

He didn't know anyone could love more than she did in that moment.

She has proven him wrong.

Her capacity for love swells and engulfs him, and the fear of having to share her affections is washed away by the luminescence of her being.

She pulls him close to her moments after their lives change forever, and together they hold their son for the first time.

He feels his own meager heart overflow, and is convinced it holds twice as much as it ever did, which is exponentially more than he ever dreamed he'd contain.

The small bundle of pink skin and blonde silk and wide eyes is warm in his arms, and when he meets his son's eyes for the first time, and he feels the small hand clamp around his finger, he knows he is the most important person he will ever meet.

And although his name means 'dark,' Adrien is the brightest light in their world.

* * *

iv.

His well of inspiration is full, as is his calendar. He works long and hard, determined that his family shall want for nothing.

She is so proud of him, and believes in him with every granule of her being. She still leaves the small white butterflies for him, occasionally packing them in his bag, or setting them on his dresser for when he returns home.

And he knows they mean 'I am waiting,' and 'Come home to us,' and 'I believe in you.'

He is humbled to find he needs to hear these words as desperately as he does… but only from her.

Time slips on, and seasons come and go, and he is the most sought after designer in Paris. She is still his spring, and if her hair has darkened slightly with the years, their son's absorbed all of its light. He is white-blonde fair, with intelligent, curious green eyes, and a kind disposition.

They have the crème de la crème of photographers at their disposal, but she rolls on the floor with their son, eagerly snapping countless photos of chubby baby feet and tiny fingernails and impish smiles. Perhaps her joy seeps into the film and SD cards, for even when using her old camera from forever ago, the images radiate with love. He is fairly certain he has never seen more perfect pictures.

And he keeps some with him at all times, perhaps to remind him that he really is surrounded by all of that love and affection, even when the world beyond his doors can be bleak and cruel.

It is a favor to a friend of a friend when Adrian fills in for a child model that came down with chicken pox. The cameras love her son and the photographers beg for him to return. Soon, contract offers begin pouring in.

And although this is not what she had in mind for their son, she handles it with grace and charm. She also deftly works up all of his contracts until they are airtight. She is no fool; she will not give that world the chance to eat away at her son's heart, or dip into his pockets.

Every single cent from is immediately deposited into an account and left untouched. He is adamant that no one will support his family but him, and she is adamant that everything be held in trust until her son is old enough to need it.

It is never an argument, and they both surreptitiously add to the account from which no withdrawals are ever made.

And even though he has countless professional pictures of his son, he still carries only the pictures she has taken.

Because those are the ones that never fail to make him smile.

* * *

v.

His latest season is insanely popular, and his hours have been few and his deadlines many.

Adrien is innocently caught in the crossfire when he goes looking for his father and wanders into a meeting. Barely four years old, he is heartbroken when his father snaps at him, and an assistant ushers him out hastily. His mother comes to him right away and holds him tightly.

He tries not to cry, and she takes the drawing he has crumpled in his hands, and smooths it out gently.

"Did you make that for Papa?" she asks quietly.

Two fat tears roll down his cheeks, and he watches them fall onto the tops of his shoes.

"I did it while I was waiting," he explains in a shaky voice. "I heard Nathalie say he was in his office, and since you had to go talk to the photographer…,"

"You thought you'd bring it to him?" she supplies.

He nods gravely.

"I should've known better," he mutters. "We don't matter when he is at work."

"Adrien, that is not true," his mother says, and he looks up because she has spoken as if he has wounded her.

"Your Father loves us very much – no matter where he is."

"He doesn't say it," he clenches small fists and jams them into his pockets.

"Yes he does," she tips up his chin. "You just have to know how to listen."

Adrian so wants to believe what she is saying, and she sees the desperation in his eyes.

"I'll tell you a secret," she lowers her voice and rests her forehead against his. "Your Papa is not good at saying that he loves us, but he shows us every day. Start looking closely, my little love – and you will see. And you will also see that he needs our love, too."

"Papa needs us?" he asks, sniffling. "I didn't think he needed anyone."

"People that look like they don't need anyone are the ones that need someone most of all," she whispers. "Your Papa needs you, Adrien – more than you'll ever know."

The little one dries his eyes, and she takes him home.

The next time he visits his Papa, he notices the picture on the shelf behind his desk. It is still creased and wrinkled, but it has been carefully and lovingly put into frame.

And even though Papa never actually says that he is sorry, Adrien understands.

His father never tells him or his mother that he overheard the end of their conversation – although he is certain she suspects when she sees him carefully place the picture (that she left for him on his pillow) into his briefcase the next morning.

He doesn't have the words to tell his son how right his mother is; he needs them both desperately.

But they are his world.

And he can't imagine one without either of them.

* * *

vi.

"We are here, you know."

He looks up from his work, and finds her smiling sweetly, leaning on his desk.

She comes around and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Adrien and I," she elaborates. "We are here for you."

"I know," he sighs. "But if the latest collection doesn't take off, then it could sink our whole line."

"That won't happen," she plucks a simple white wildflower and puts it in his lapel, giving it a loving pat. "And even if it did," she leans over to peck his cheek. "We'd still be here. We are still your home."

After she leaves, he studies the small bouquet she has placed on his desk, full of the same simple bloom she placed in his lapel.

His eyes grow wide, and he knows what to do.

The jewelry he designs from the simple five-petaled flower becomes one of his most popular designs. However, the simple one he made just for her, and fastened around her neck by his own hands, is by far the most important piece he has ever made.

She never takes it off.

And he hopes she knows it is a way for him to be with her when he can't be there… and she hopes he knows she wears it to show that she always has him close to her heart.

* * *

vii.

His business is well run and hugely successful.

If he never designed another garment or brooch in his life, they could still live comfortably for the rest of his days – possibly even his grandchildren's days.

Perhaps, he thinks, it is time to step back.

He begins work on his new studio space, and his architectural elements are so complex, he has brought in special designers and builders.

He does not let her see anything of the project until it is done, and waits until Adrien at his Chinese lessons so he can show her alone.

He brings her into the dark room and has her stand in the center. With a push of a button, a pinpoint of light on the far wall grows to envelop the room as the metal covering the giant window telescopes open like the aperture of a camera. Light pours through the glass and floods the domed space.

She looks to him with such pride that he can't help but savor it for a moment longer before instructing "Look up."

She gasps and clutches her hands over her heart in astonishment, for above her is every single butterfly she has ever made him. Hundreds of folded paper butterflies staggered on clear strings until it appears an entire cloud of them is suspended in the air overhead.

The tears that slip down her cheeks glisten with the happiness that overflows her heart, and he knows in that moment she could ask anything and he would grant it without hesitation.

But as usual, she asks for nothing.

"I will be home more," he promises her. "This will be our space. Just the three of us – together."

A strangled sob escapes her throat, but it echoes with the joy of a promise already kept rather than just made.

She hugs him tightly, and he feels that now, finally, he has everything.

They have nothing but happy days ahead of them, and he can't wait to begin.

* * *

viii.

The police have no ideas.

She has vanished without a trace.

He pays top dollar for expedient, discrete inquiries, but can find nothing.

With his light gone, his own natural darkness begins to seep into the edges and sinew of his heart.

Still, he fights it as he searches for her and tries to maintain his empire.

Adrien reaches out even as his father withdraws into his work. He supports his father the only way he knows how, and his schedule becomes more and more full, and his face is nearly as iconic as his father's designs.

It is the fear that invites it the end.

One night, long after Adrien is asleep, he is in his studio space, his latest report clutched in his hands. He trembles with fear and anger and disappointment and betrayal, for he does not know if she left or if she was taken.

" _I can help you find her._ "

He jumps at the voice and his eyes dart around the room angrily.

"Who are you?" he asks the empty air. "Show yourself!"

A breeze moves through the room, stirring the butterflies above. But there is no window open.

" _How far will you go to find her?_ " the deep voice rumbles, redolent with power.

"For her?!" he clenches his fists. "I'll go anywhere – do anything. No price is too great."

" _Then_ ," the voice echoes smugly. " _I will lend you my power._ "

And every dark corner of his heart flies open, releasing any negative emotion he has ever felt, amplifying it to the nth degree. He feels the darkness seep into his spinal cord and radiate through to his fingernails.

The cloud of butterflies explodes from the ceiling to swirl and cascade around him until he is dizzied by the spinning flutter of white.

"How?" he cries. "How do I find her?"

" _The Miraculous Stones. Find them, and you will have the power to find her."_

"Why are you helping me?" he asks with the last untainted shred of his heart. "Why do you want to help me?"'

" _Your wife is gone, and your son is without a mother. If we find her does the rest matter_?"

He thinks of his son, lost and lonely.

A world without her is a world without light.

"No," he hardens his resolve. "No it doesn't."

And with that concession, the darkness seeps from the corners of the room to engulf him, sealing away what little light he had left into the far recesses of his heart.

" _Remember. Find the Miraculous Stones. Once you posess them all, you will be able to find her."_

"I understand,' he says, even as his own heart darkens and warps in his breast. "I will stop at nothing until I have them. Until I find her."

He holds out his hand, and a single once-paper creature flutters into his palm. With a sinister grin, he cups his hands around it and concentrates all of his fear and hate and loneliness and despair into its very core. When he opens his fingers, the butterfly is ink-black and steeped in darkness.

His features flash astonishment before bleeding into a composed sneer.

" _Now tell me_ ," the darkness' voice echoes smugly as it seeps into his bones and melds with his subconscious. " _Who are you? Speak your name, and claim your power._ "

He knows the words he will speak cannot be unspoken, but there is no room for hesitation.

Only for power.

With three words, it will all be his.

"I am Hawkmoth."

" _Well done, my akuma,"_ the voice chuckles darkly as it fades into the recesses of his subconscious _. "Well done indeed."_

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _Thank you for reading, friends! Enjoy your weekend!_

 _\- GL_


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